Laima Kreivytė (b. 1972) is interested in the interaction of text and image and often works as an exhibition curator. She has published the poetry book Sappho’s Purgatorial Library (Sapfo skai[s]tykla) and compiled books about the artist Marija Teresė Rožanskaitė and the painter Kęstutis Zapkus. She curates poetic performances and participates in Coolturistes artist group exhibitions. Laima Kreivytė has translated the poetry of Adrienne Rich, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath and Elizabeth Bishop.

Laima Kreivytė

Waiting for when I can take my time,not work three jobs,not write out of duty,nor fall asleep at my laptop.Waiting for Godot, but she’s not coming.Waiting for the bill, which always comes:letters asking me to pay forelectricity, water, hot and cold,warmth, heating, television, telephone,always more and more,and all the most expensive other services.Waiting for when books will coverthe closets, tables, chairs, and floor.Waiting for deep, peaceful sleep,having forgotten about them.Waiting for my daughter on Skype.Waiting for my girlfriend at the café.Waiting for my beloved to come and gowithout stopping.Waiting for a miracle.Waiting for it to be denied.Waiting for when I’m not late –and nobody has to wait for me.Waiting for the academic year to end,the student work,and prayers by the Presidential Palace.Waiting for Rosy to legally begon Castle street.Waiting for horror in a handful of dust.Waiting until.Waiting because.Waiting for.Waiting even though.Waiting by the window.Waiting behind the door.Waiting on a hot tin roof.Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.Waiting for you to call,for the staff to sprout –for poets to heal politicians.Waiting for when I can be alonein the room of my own.Waiting for a morning without an alarm,an evening without the news,a day without a mobile phone,a week without responsibilities.Waiting for books to read mefor I have no time to read them. Waiting for you to give a signin the sky, on Facebook, or through the window.Waiting for someone to tell mewhat I’m waiting for.

Translation by Rimas Užgiris

A Shadow’s Division

if you think – it isand doesn’t fade awaya thrill like a recordcannot divide it in twoand in three – complicatedbeloved, whydoes it happento you and I?

I would like not to lurknot to discover secretlywhat other hands wroteunder your skinbut noI cannot believe I just feel how next to mea clairvoyant darknessbreathes

do not movedo not speakdon’t be scared when you risedon’t stop halfwaywhen regrets grow insideto a pillar of saltdon’t descend into silencelonging like a shadowonly gets longer

Translation by Ūla Gutauskaitė

Sappho’s Purgatorial Library

rubbing side by sidewith no waving of hemsthey muster like menwithout uniformsexcept for thosefrom the elite branchof the library of world literature

friends flock according to heightsometimes by colorand while some select societiesothers sidle up to just anyonethe favorites are fondledcaressed and carriedfrom table to bedthen left spread wide by the computerwhile others patiently wait for the hostesswho will never cometo themwho foolishly continue to feeltheir worth is more than wallpaper

the colored artsy ones take the honored places striking to the eyesthey have nothing to sayand it’s better not to speak about their inner beauty

at night they dream the dreams and thoughts of otherswhile those who spent the day sitting on their handsdiscover the intoxication of eveninga body pricked by eyesone’s back is one’s true face

younger ones hold beauty contestswhile their elders hold to values tried and truelinen clotheslong-term relationshipsthough sometimes a third gets in betweenbut it’s no botherbecause there’s always someoneat one’s sidemaking it hard to decidewhich love is bestand one catches the general ecstasyfrom such an intimatepressure

Translation by Rimas Užgiris

***

you areand my lips crumbleas wind sweeps away sounds that have not panned outgripped by feartwo drunk fairies kiss under lindenleaves in heatas night slips down its bannistersand cold drops of skyflutter faceswhere the flow of diaphanous timestopson a trembling leaf

dots have no length, width or depthpearled barley, pearls, perspectivesa steel giant with clay feet livesa hail of people outside its windowsand dust, dust, smoldering by the screen pixels will be ground to flourto the thickening flame of despair –one more victim pressed from heat

II

wingless Nike stands on the edgeof a supermarket without consumptionit’s her day off not to mentionher leg hurts since morning

liberty’s muse watches from an islandwith her thorny head held highbut her thorns aren’t feathers and the kitethat flies freely crumples as it crashesinto hard truth

just a frame – just a fraction of a second –and it dies – and it lives on – – –

V

she fell and fell and fell and fell –

a thousand timesover and over again – –

from smoke – to formfrom form – to smokeshe sank and roseagain, to top the horns – –

then fell once moreinto black cloud –the streets were floodedwith legions of despair

from the body – to smokefrom smoke – to the bodyfrom dust – to dust

– – – – – – – – – – – –

accidental survivorsforgot their keysran late got lostif one can wina life in hock – –

VI

there is no stream of time –just a dotted line of seconds – – what vanished will remain for centuriesundeadand born again through thousandsof new devices where the three-dimensional scenebecomes but two – –

Translation by Rimas Užgiris

Resonance

I see you in the leaves after wintertime:The wind is chasing them on the driveway – Mad and dry…Leaves that will not bloom cut from the trunkOf a two-stem linden,They will not reach the kingdom of heaven. Blood runs in a closed circle inside me, It reverses the directionOf the evolution’s carrousel. I become a lizard, a snake,A deadly tarantula,Infusorium protozoa,Bacteria – –I see you in the yards of red brick houses,In the vacuum of the streets,Among lonely cosmonautsIn unfulfilled dreams’ halos – How bright they shine!As celestial bodies fade‘Maxima’ malls hold no meaning – Their unknowns are unimportant.

There is no connection – just the same radio station,The same waves – – – – – –

Translation by Ūla Gutauskaitė

Revelation of Šeškinė

My soul’s hunger is insatiable I’m suppressing it by filling my body

Through my longing Through my longing Through my deepest longing

I beg previous and future loversAnd you my sisterhoodTo pray for me Mother Goddess Of the glorious army of amazons

Rooms separated by single bedsAre uncrossable The heat of stanger’s house walls Is unbearable

The thirst for the depths of the EarthCannot be soothedBy fake orgasmsIn the concrete block buildings

Holy Holy Holy

Sixteen-storey high-riser In Šeškinė – –

Translation by Ūla Gutauskaitė

Intimate Arithmetic

I don’t want to count the minutes and hours,nor to breathe according to your moods.My life is one – and I am onehowever much I might like you.There is one window opening to mountains and my gaze bounces back off the peaks onto one bed, one table, one computer,and one blue shower stall.One balcony gazes slant, and the neighbors are behind just one wall – the other is the end. Lucky me!There is one deadline, but many stops along the way. I have to learn this and that, write something up, while you investigate new bodies –and yours as it gets old.Earthly objects don’t reach my orbit –the light of dead stars excites only greenhouses.I like ambivalent weather best –neither sun, nor rain, nor cold, nor heat.Just these clouds. Gray cumuli.And one cup of coffee in the morning.

Translation by Rimas Užgiris

1. The documentary film about people falling from burning skyscrapers on 9/11 was watched on Youtube more than four million times.